


Breathe-less

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Fiction, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-16
Updated: 2007-11-16
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A detailed description of an encounter in the dark, contains eroticasphyxiation.





	Breathe-less

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Breathe-less

## Breathe-less

### by Griva

##### [Story Headers]

  


Title: Breathe-less  
Summary: a gratuitous description of an encounter in the dark, an erotic asphyxiation. Pure indulgence of my kinky mind. Wanted to make it short, but words just kept on pouring out, because of the images I had in my mind. 

Note: for me the fun with this story is that if Mulder did not have a tie fetish, the whole story could have been written from Krycek being on the receiving end. :) 

Rating: ...not NC-17. But some sexual references. 

Unbeta'd. 

* * *

I'm not a masochist. I hate pain. I won't tolerate humiliation. I just happen to love him. No. That word is too weak. I require him. He's as necessary to me as oxygen. Food I don't require often. Water I can do without for some time. Oxygen and him. That's all I need. 

You leave me breathless. That's not a figure of speech. There was the time, last autumn, when I walked into your room in a bleak and derelict motel and it was so dark I almost ran into the tall, narrow table just inside the door. I almost hit it--but your eyes were trained on me in the dark, and the cumulative effect was, well, disorienting--but you saved me from the bruise, pulled me away from the table, pushed me up against the wall. You saved me from that bruise. How funny. You saved me for this one. 

I'd worn a tie, midnight blue, nearly as dark as the room. I find ties irresistible: the knot at my neck, the thin pendulum against my chest, all that silk folded in on itself and offered to the world. Offered to you. Your fist that night, came fast and not gentle. Once, for a change, the tables have been turned. You wrapped the tie around your knuckles twice, three times, nudged my head back against the plaster, where your other fist was already full of my hair. 

I could feel my pulse behind the knot, some small, live part of me straining toward you. I gulped--no, I couldn't gulp, you held me so close my throat could barely open--and watched you watching me. Your eyes were nearly invisible. Your fist's insistent force, lodged just under my jaw, was increasing. 

"Open your mouth," you said, saving any greetings. 

I imagined you punching me then, your hand barely retracted before it threw me back against the wall, still held by you, inescapable. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and thought of your sleeve pushed back, fourteen inches of forearm channeled into that dense knot of finger and meat: a knot that could undo my own. I dreamed--in that darkness, with the sound of a car door's quick slam from the road--of being undone by you. Slammed shut or open. It was unnatural that you never hit back. And suspicious. And so I dreamed of my face's ricochet through your fist. I dreamed that your wrist would throb with my mouth. Resonant. 

I closed my eyes and opened wide and wanted nothing more than that echo. Take it. I can. The more I take from you, the more I will return. Be it hate. Love. Oxygen. 

That's when your mouth closed on mine. Not even closed: there was still some splinter of space and skin between your lips--their barely formed question--and mine, all too ready to answer. I can't control my lips when I'm like this. They tremble. They refuse to stay still. Even immobilized, even with my head held fast between your hands, my mouth quivers, every nerve awake and flailing. 

If I could have spoken, I would have said, _Please_. If I could have spoken, I would have said, _Closer_. If I could have spoken, I would have asked you to make it impossible for me to speak. 

It was _already_ impossible. 

Your tongue traced the thick surface of my lower lip, the pout I'm famous for. I wanted it in my throat; I wanted it lodged somewhere deep in my larynx, right up against my voice. But you were intent on making me tremble. My arms started to shake. I could feel each skein of muscle between my collarbone and my abdomen threatening to unravel. I wondered if you could make me fall apart. I wondered if you could put me back together again. 

"You're trembling," you said, not even inches from my mouth. 

I said nothing. 

"I want you to hold still," you said. 

I held my breath instead. I was close to choking anyway. Twitching against that wall, I figured, what the hell, I'll hold my mouth open and try not to breathe, to stop everything, no matter how much your tongue tries to draw it out of me. I held my breath. I stowed it away and shut it down. Thirty seconds later and my lungs were pushing back. The distance between my lips and chest grew interminable. I looked at you, or approximately where you were, since you were, at that point, just one kind of darkness inside another. 

Over your shoulder, headlights flashed across the threshold of your door, still open, and slid across a framed photograph of a woman's body. It could have been Holy Mother; it could have been Cher. 

Conspire means to breathe with someone else. I refused to breathe with you. Your voice, when it came, was serious, darker than your eyes, almost angry. 

"No," you said. "That'd be too easy for you. Give it back." 

So I did. You pulled your mouth away from mine and gave me one chance--the first, the last--to exhale. I did it because I had to. If I had been stronger I would have held it in, dared you to punch it out of me. But I exhaled, and the breath and spit flew out of me, and my chest sank and then heaved back up, and in that moment of recovery and tense extension you gave me what I wanted. You crushed your mouth into mine. Your teeth tore into my upper lip. (Was it a punishment or a promise? Is there a difference?) My blood was somewhere between us. Your hand-- the one in my hair--let go, pulled back, dragged something out of your pocket, made me notice that I hadn't been close enough to you to feel your pockets, to touch whatever might have been hidden inside them. You could have hauled your cock out--I could not have stopped you--but instead there was this abrupt, mechanical click, something else unwound and, fast, clamped around my wrists. You gave me steel instead of bone. 

"Damn, man. First time I try...and you'd trust me to do it?" 

Don't YOU know? You are about as trusting as a cat, all claws and watchful eyes. Never let your guard down, not for a minute. You spark like a cat too, when you are stroked. 

"I'd do. Who else'd do that?" 

I tasted my lip and thought of my wrist. I made room for your tongue and thought of your cock. The steel bit into my skin. You bit me again, more gently this time. Your tongue hovered just inside my mouth, a guest at the door, and I felt, this was the sign of proposition, not an order. 

You'd tugged at my tie then. "Come inside, then, Mulder. If you trust me, I'll give you what you came for." 

Trust only movement, I'd have smirked if I could. I would have told you that life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement. 

Cuffed and pressed between you and the wall, I felt you lift my collar. You loosened the loop of my tie, shook free the coil around your fist. A siren wailed. You shoved that length of silk inside your jeans. I wanted your cock to leave its mark, some viscous trail to choke me with. You shifted your hips against mine. Even through your denim, my thin suitpants, that clot of silk and cotton, your cock was no secret. I felt its pulse, thick and slurred and almost subterranean. I felt that pulse and wanted--my heart was racing--to give you mine. 

Your thumbs moved up to frame my throat: first my clavicle, then the thick cord on either side of my Adam's apple, then up and under the ridge of my jaw. Your hands were searching for something. 

"Found it," you whispered through your tongue, which had settled into the softest rhythm, barely grazing the tip of my own, your lips intent on coaxing me out. You wedged your knee just under my balls and I felt them draw in, all of me tugged upward, pulled by your hands toward that thin ridge you'd found beneath my skull, where my blood condensed and quivered, barely out of your reach. I felt suddenly porous--as though you could get inside me, as though I could be held in your hand, unwound and wound up again. You pressed harder, as if you could make a furrow in my pulse, an indentation in a vein, some concave line inside the throb that lifted me, up and into you, up and out of my tented trousers, sweat-slick abdomen and hair-spattered thorax, up into your wrists, your mouth, that blunt and summoning tongue you kept sliding into me and taking back. 

"So...how does it feel, for a change?" Your voice came booming from what could have been my bowels. 

I was shifting. My ears were full of blood and the slight, moist sound of your tongue, the soft hum you made each time I gave myself a little more, each time my tongue failed to thrash, each time I grew more listless, eyes closed but some new darkness pushing in. I couldn't tell your hands from my throat. I couldn't tell your weight from the wall. The cuffs were just an echo, indecipherable. 

I couldn't think. Not even of the ways the blur that crept into my eyes--your hands--felt oddly like the fur I'd glimpsed inside your shirt. Not even of the ways your tongue grew hair and combed me, lip by lip, out and into you. Not this. Not this. Not this. You were squeezing my throat, pressing into my blood, unfurling me. Breath fuzzed out and stuttered, my heart smeared in your mouth, your thumbs inside your tongue inside my gasp and gasp and gasp. 

Then-- _pop_ \--I'm blank. 

This fall and float and flutter and oh. 

And then the heart-lurch, the revenant stab, your hands back where they had been, my eyes flinching open, my voice far away: did you? Did I? 

"Me? I almost came. But you've scared the shit out of me! What'd I do if you kicked the bucket?" 

And your backlit, somber nod as you held me, your mouth closed on whatever I'd given you. Your mouth still closed as you let me go, as your hands folded back upon themselves and I--helpless, unhanded--fell down the wall, slid before I knew it. You let me fall. 

That night, once I had fallen, you picked me up and we stumbled into something that felt like bed. You made a hollow space within your arms for me, a thick cocoon. That night--someone scratching at the door, more sirens, the vaguest rustle of rain--you held me so long and hard I thought I might not ever breathe again. I thought I might be happy not to breathe. We moved from one dark place to another. I was in thrall to that darkness, the slams and scratches as you held me in place, the ghosts in those rooms. I was lost. I was Christopher Columbus and you were America. I was discovering something I wanted for so long to find. And your heartbeat told me things I never knew I wanted to hear... 

Our coupling felt like kicking death in the ass while singing. 

Afterwards his hands rubbed smoothly over my back...there was nothing more to fix today. I could feel myself glowing from his attentions. Even though tomorrow Scully will ask why my voice is low and raspy and add that maybe I should finally take that sick leave. 

But here with him, I'd die another little death, exfoliated, trying not to allow myself to believe, or even to hope, that the next one could be my last. 

/end

  
 

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Title:   **Breathe-less**   
Author:  Griva   [email/website]   
Details:   **Standalone**  |  **R**  |  **10k**  |  **11/16/07**   
Pairings:  Mulder/Krycek   
Category:  Story, Angst, PWP   
Summary:  A detailed description of an encounter in the dark, contains erotic   
asphyxiation.   
  
  
  
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